


Doesn't Take a Lot of Ginger Ale to Cause a Lot of Trouble

by strangetales69



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Armani Ties, Established Relationship, M/M, flagrant abuse of celebrity image, sue storm tragically not featured to anywhere near her full potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales69/pseuds/strangetales69
Summary: “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to take down Neil Patrick Harris’ terrible Instagrams, or whatever.”Johnny’s eyes sparked.  “It’s not that,” he said, his mile-a-minute panic voice coming back, the voice that was the same for We’re Out of Vanilla Ice Cream and The World is Maybe Ending for Real.  “I’m pretty sure Neil Patrick Harris and his snotty-face kids are going to steal our Halloween costume.”Marriage can get stagnant, even for the most colorful of celebrity super-couples. The solution? Start a blood feud with some people who sort of look like you. Peter and Johnny cage fight (?) (read the fic to find out) some actor's whole family.





	Doesn't Take a Lot of Ginger Ale to Cause a Lot of Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic and posted it on my [tumblr](http://teenbrigade.tumblr.com/post/155367164828/with-apologies-to-neil-patrick-harris) a little more than a year ago because I am constantly preoccupied with Johnny and Peter and celebrity culture and I love to take my twitter jokes just a little too far. I decided to polish it up and dust off the ol' Ao3 as possible (?) motivation to actually finish another fic sometime this century. I'm sorry Mr. and Mr. Harris-Burtka please do not sue me or whatever.
> 
> Title with apologies to Doogie Howser

Johnny met Neil Patrick Harris for the first time at an Oscars afterparty. Johnny was a little past tipsy and Harris was completely put together even though he was on at least his sixth glass of champagne that evening.  The first thing Johnny had said was “Are you sure that’s not ginger ale?” even though he’d been planning clever quips since he got the invitation.  Harris just laughed graciously.  “I’ll never tell,” he said, and swept back to his party guests. Johnny didn’t remember much from the rest of that evening, other than the really tall guy he went home with and exactly how loud Really Tall Guy’s snoring was when Johnny woke way too late in the morning somewhere near Pasadena with no recollection of what his hotel was called.   

 

Peter laughed when he heard the story.  Johnny left out the part about Really Tall Guy, because even though Peter’s ring was on Johnny’s finger now, Johnny knew his husband well enough to know that hookup stories were a bad idea.  Especially for the petty criminals of New York, who would have Peter’s jealousy written all over them in bruises.  Sometimes Johnny kind of liked that, but today, he decided, he would be merciful. 

“It probably was ginger ale,” said Peter, “he so seems the type.”

“You just don’t want to admit that Neil Patrick Harris can probably drink you under the table.”

 “He probably can,” Peter laughed, stroking Johnny’s hair.  “I’m just saying he seems the ginger ale type too.”  He brushed Johnny’s hair back and kissed the top of his head.  “Will you go get the kids up? I’ll make breakfast.”

Johnny reluctantly peeled himself out of Peter’s warm embrace and slung his legs over the side of their bed.  “I’ll get the kids,” he said, “but don’t you dare make breakfast.”

Peter laughed.

 “I’m serious!” said Johnny, padding to the door, “Coffee only.  Cereal’s pushing it.  You wait for me, buddy.”

“I love you,” said Peter from the bed, looking all tousled and beautiful and smiling dumbly at Johnny in the yellow morning sunlight.  Johnny’s heart tripped a little the way it always did when he really looked at Peter, when he stopped, temporarily, not believing it was possible this was real, that he had Peter, that they’d promised each other forever and it was looking like forever, that when Peter said “I love you” he meant it as much as Johnny did, meant it with all his heart. _I know it feels like we took forever to get here_ , he thought about saying to Peter, _but I would wait another forever if it meant I got to come home to you._

“Cereal,” he said instead, “and _maybe_ toast.  But if I catch you with eggs, dude, it’s over.”

“Isn’t it weird,” said Peter, after the kids had been packed off to school and the baby was safely toddling around her playpen, “that Neil Patrick Harris is a very famous blond guy who is married to a slightly less famous brown haired dude, and they have two kids?”

“We have three kids, so we win,” said Johnny, scraping at the egg Peter had burnt to the bottom of the pan. “Wait.  Are you finally admitting I’m more famous than you?”

“No, I’m saying that the brown haired dude Johnny Storm is famously gay married to—Peter Parker—” he gestured dramatically to himself with a scrambled egg-y toddler fork, “is perhaps not quite as famous as Storm himself, but Spider-Man, no relation, who could be bald for all anyone knows, easily out-reputations you.”

“That’s what you think.” Johnny snatched Peter’s fork away.  “Don’t pick at Benjy’s leftovers, you had your own.”

“I’m just saying, we should, like, cage fight them.”

“That wouldn’t be fair, Pete, we would definitely win.”

“I dunno, David Burtka looks like he knows Tae Kwon Do.” Peter grabbed some ketchupy hash browns up with his fingers and popped them into his mouth before Johnny could whisk the plate into the dishwasher. 

“They probably take couple’s Tae Kwon Do lessons together.”

“They probably do family Tae Kwon Do!”

“Oh, my god, they do.”

“They probably dress their little kiddos up in tiny little gis and kick all in sync.”

Johnny started the dishwasher, shaking his head dramatically. “We gotta up our game.”

 

* * *

 

The second time Johnny met Neil Patrick Harris was at the Baxter Building during a gala celebrating the return of the Future Foundation.  “Home turf,” Peter whispered in Johnny’s ear when he spotted the Harris-Burtka family taking a sickeningly adorable picture with the hired photographer.  “Better think of something better to say than ‘is that ginger ale?’.” Johnny smacked him.  “Ow!” hissed Peter.

“You have super-strength, you big baby.”

“That doesn’t mean I have super-pain-tolerance!”

Johnny sipped his drink innocently.  They watched the family get in line for food. “Burtka’s pretty cute,” he mused. “We should do like a gay wifeswap thing.”

Johnny smirked at Peter’s murderous look.  “Over my dead body,” said Peter.  “Plus, he’s at least ten years older than you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Peter choked on the hors de ’oeuvre he’d nabbed from a passing tray.  Johnny patted him obligingly on the back.

“Why didn’t we bring _our_ kids?” asked Johnny when Peter was mostly recovered.

“Because this is an evening event, and the 7-year-old would get restless, the 5-year-old would have a meltdown, and the baby would throw a tantrum?”

“Ugh, you’re right,” sighed Johnny, watching the Harris-Burtkas with envy.  “How irresponsible.”

“Their kids are older,” Peter offered.

“Irresponsible and adorable.”

“I still think we should throw down with them. You take the blond, I’ll take the brunet?”

Johnny gasped and grabbed Peter’s arm.

“What? Do you have a strategy?”

“No, but Peter—he’s wearing my tie.”

“What?”

“Neil Patrick Harris is wearing the same tie as me.”

Peter squinted.  “I mean, lots of guys are wearing blue ties.”

“No, Peter, this is an Armani tie.  It’s from their new spring collection.  It hasn’t even been released yet, this was a gift from my stylist.  And look! Look at the pattern!  Look at the spacing.  That is definitely my tie.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

When Johnny looked up from glaring bitterly at the tie, Neil Patrick Harris was making eye contact with him.  A bright smile sprung across Harris’ face.  He said something to his husband and ushered the twin he was watching closer to their sibling.  “Oh no,” said Johnny, “is he coming over here?  Does he see my tie?”

“He’s definitely coming over; tie thing I’m still up in the air about.”

“Johnny Storm!” chimed Harris with all the charm and enthusiasm of his awards show persona.  Johnny was going to punch him.  He settled for an overly firm handshake instead.  “Have I met your husband?”  Here he turned to Peter, his face glowing.  Johnny was an extravert too, but he found Harris’ unwavering brightness a little suspect.  Or would, if he didn’t come across so genuine. 

“His name’s Peter,” he said a little loudly at Harris, before Peter could introduce himself.  “And you can call me John.”  Peter shot Johnny a quizzical look.  Johnny made one of those faces he made when he was trying to communicate something silently.  Peter was usually pretty 50/50 with face interpretation, but this one flew right by him. He raised his eyebrows.

“What do you do, Peter?” asked Harris, gracefully ignoring Peter and Johnny’s facial acrobatics. 

“He’s a photographer,” said Johnny. 

“Does he speak?” 

“Haha,” said Johnny, too loudly and with too little emotion.

“I do,” said Peter, thankfully, at the same time. He tried to step on Johnny’s foot but just kind of mashed his pinky toe.  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Harris.  Or Patrick-Harris?  Or—”

“Neil, please,” replied the aforementioned Mr. Harris. “I wish I could have made it to your wedding.”  He leaned in conspiratorially. “David and I were wrapping production on a top-secret project.  But I hear the ceremony was quite touching.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “Yeah, there was a lot of touching.”

Harris threw back his head and let out a delighted guffaw.  Johnny shot Peter a _look_.  “I honestly didn’t even know you were invited to our wedding,” Johnny pressed on unwisely. Harris stopped laughing.  “My, uh, uh, sister made the guest list,” he finished, even though Sue and Reed had still been missing through most of the wedding planning, and everyone knew it.  He spotted a waiter rushing past and grabbed him by the sleeve.  “Is there any more champagne?” he asked a little desperately.

“Right away, Mr. Storm,” said the waiter.

“Thank god.”  Johnny pressed his empty flute into the waiter’s hand.  “And take care of this, too, would ya?  Thanks, man.”  The waiter rushed away with Johnny’s glass.  Johnny squinted at Harris, wondering if he remembered their brief meeting years earlier, daring him to make a ginger ale crack.

“You really have something to celebrate here,” Harris said instead, looking around.  He was right, thought Johnny.  It had been too long since the Baxter Building had really felt like this—lively, lived-in.  Full of colorful people.  Earlier in the evening, after the speeches but before the food, the Future Foundation kids had had full run of the room, bouncing off the wall with their youthful energy and excitement.  It was getting late now, and they were down the old people and a few stragglers—Val was still mingling expertly—Alex Power, who’d apparently grown up completely when Johnny wasn’t looking, was chatting up some of the less terrifying Avengers. Franklin’s head rested drowsily against his mom’s side while Sue stroked his hair.   Johnny had never been so grateful to have his family all in one place. 

But Neil Patrick Harris didn’t need to know that. Neil Patrick Harris wasn’t family. Neil Patrick Harris’ closest connect to the Future Foundation was the time a background character in an episode of his latest hit TV show had mentioned something called the Fabulous Foundation, which was mostly, Johnny seemed to recall, about clothes. 

“Yeah,” said Johnny.  “We do.” He cleared his throat. “Where’d you get that tie, Neil?”

Harris glanced down at his tie, then back up at Johnny.  He opened his mouth.

“Going to introduce me to your friends?” asked David Burtka, who had snuck up to them from across the room.  He swung an arm around Harris’ shoulders.  Johnny fumed until Peter mirrored the gesture, yanking Johnny closer to him a little possessively. 

“Where are the kids?” asked Harris softly.

“Gone home.  The nanny came to pick them up.”

_The_ nanny, Johnny mouthed at Peter.  Peter rolled his eyes.

“You know John Storm,” Harris introduced. 

“In name only,” said Burtka, shaking Johnny’s hand. “So nice to finally meet you.”

“I’m Peter, his husband,” Peter growled, snatching Burtka’s hand as soon as he’d finished greeting Johnny. 

“I’m so sorry we missed the wedding!” said Burtka brightly.  “We had a—”

“I was just telling them,” chuckled Harris.

“I saw your _People_ cover, though.  Nice shots.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, “Wasn’t yours on _Vanity Fair_?  We did _Vanity Fair_ , too.  And _Out_ magazine had an exclusive spread.  They arranged it as soon as we announced the engagement.”

“I’m pretty famous,” added Johnny.

“He’s pretty famous,” Peter confirmed. 

“Well, I’m sure you got our gift, but it never hurts to say congratulations in person.” Burtka offered them a warm smile.  Peter narrowed his eyes.  Harris and Burtka definitely had the short end of the fame stick. Weren’t they going to defend themselves?

“He’s right,” said Harris.  “We’re so glad you boys got to join the old married club!”

It was a sweet thought, really.  Johnny was sure he should have been flattered that Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka were apologizing for not coming to his wedding. He should welcome the mentorship they, as an older same-sex married couple, were offering he and his husband. He should feel honored to be in the Old Married Club with them.  If Johnny were someone else, he was sure, he would feel all these things.  He kind of wished he did.  But mostly he was just annoyed that Harris seemed to think he and his husband were in charge of gay marriage or something.  And what were he and Peter?  Chopped liver?

“Yeah, so, anyway,” said Johnny, “wanna see something cool?”

 

 

“I’m so sorry, Neil,” said Sue, mostly at Johnny, while she patted down Neil Patrick Harris’ slightly singed tie with a towel.

Harris laughed.  “It’s fine!  It was an accident.  And the fireball juggling was very cool.  No hard feelings, John.” 

“I’m sure _John_ will be sure to keep his powers under tight control from now on, the way he was trained,” Sue snapped pointedly.

“I liked the part where you acted like you were gonna miss that fireball headed for the hors de ‘oeuvres,” whispered Peter in his ear.  Johnny smirked.

“Won’t you, John?” Sue asked, her eyes bugging in her watch-yourself-mister way.

“Of course, sis.”

 

* * *

 

“Pete, I need help,” Johnny said one afternoon, emerging wild-eyed from their bedroom.

Peter, who was fully decked out as Spider-Man, stopped halfway through closing the window he’d come in through and ripped his mask off, rushing to Johnny’s side. “What, what is it,” he babbled, “is everyone ok? Is it Reed and Sue? Where’s Ben?”  He gripped Johnny’s arms.  “Where are the kids?”

“The kids—everyone’s fine.  The kids are with MJ, remember?”

“Then what the hell is going on?”

Johnny thrust his smudgy iPhone at Peter.  “Look.”

“What—what am I looking at?” asked Peter, squinting at the grid of colorful family photos that hovered dangerously close to his nose.

“It’s Neil Patrick Harris’ Instagram.” Johnny tapped a photo.  “Look!”

“Shit,” sighed Peter, giving Johnny’s bicep a sharp squeeze in reprimand.  “You scared me, Johnny, I thought it was a real emergency.”

“It is!”

“Neil Patrick Harris’ family’s last year’s Halloween costume is an emergency?”  Peter groaned, pulling the top half of his suit over his head.  “For better, for worse,” he repeated to no one in particular, “For better, for worse.”

“Stop it.”  Johnny followed Peter into the bedroom, where he had flopped onto their bed, spread-eagled, nude but for the grimy bottom half of his Spidey suit.  “It’s like you don’t even care!”

“About what?” Peter considered getting up to change, but it didn’t seem worth the effort, especially when it was Auntie MJ night for the kids.  There was no one to stop him wandering naked around the apartment now.  Johnny was rummaging through their closet.  “Is my robe in there?”

“If you mean the tiny little red one, I burned it,” said Johnny, his voice muffled with his head stuck past the first row of hanging shirts.  “And I wish you would take me seriously.”

“You did not burn it!”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.  But you’ll never find it.”  Johnny emerged with a wrinkly t-shirt from the back of the closet and tossed it at Peter’s head.

“You liked that robe!”

“I didn’t.”

“You said it was sexy!”

“I said you shouldn’t be allowed to wear a robe like that around the house like a smoking jacket; that thing was practically lingerie—” Johnny threw himself dramatically onto the bed next to Peter, picking up the t-shirt that had settled over Peter’s face and smacking him with it, “But that’s not,” smack, “the point!” smack.  “I am so close to murdering a celebrated actor and his husband, and all you care about is your stupid robe!”  His voice shot up in desperation.

“Ok, ok,” said Peter, propping himself up on his elbows, “I’m listening.”

“Up,” Johnny prompted, patting Peter’s back gently. Peter snorted but sat up. “Up,” Johnny said again.  Peter raised his arms over his head.

“I’m not a child, you know,” said Peter. Johnny hummed, pulling Peter’s shirt on over his raised arms the same way he dressed the kids every morning.  He slid off the bed and started tugging at Peter’s boot.  Peter watched him for a little bit.  He’d always known Johnny would be a good dad, but when they first adopted Benjy, he’d been surprised at just how patient and gentle Johnny had been—Johnny, who literally burst into flames, Johnny, whose emotions had always flared and burned quicker than a struck match—Johnny had been the tear-wiper, the diaper-changer, the patient listener to toddler stuttering long after Peter was burnt out and frustrated.  Peter should have known—Johnny had always been tender, even his hottest rage lit by passion.

Johnny looked up at him, boot in hand.  “What?”

“Nothing,” said Peter, suddenly aware of the fond, dopey smile on his face, but doing nothing about it.  “I just like looking at you.”

“Sweet-talker,” Johnny muttered.  He leaned back on his hands.  “I’m still mad at you.”

“I said I was listening.” Peter leaned forward to kiss Johnny on the top of his head.  Johnny, despite himself, tilted his chin up for another kiss, which Peter delivered gently to his lips.  “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to take down Neil Patrick Harris’ terrible Instagrams, or whatever.”

Johnny’s eyes sparked.  “It’s not that,” he said, his mile-a-minute panic voice coming back, the voice that was the same for We’re Out of Vanilla Ice Cream and The World is Maybe Ending for Real.  “I’m pretty sure Neil Patrick Harris and his snotty-face kids are going to steal our Halloween costume.”

“What!?” Peter cried.  He hadn’t expected to share Johnny’s panic, but he’d helped pick the costume this year, and it was awesome. “They wouldn’t.  We’re the diversity factor!  Who’s their little girl gonna be—Rand?”

“Probably,” said Johnny miserably.

“This isn’t even—we’re more famous than them!”

“The Halloween costumes are their thing,” Johnny whined, “they’ve been doing them since before Benjy was born.  We have to stop them, Peter, I was ok with more Insta likes when we were doing different costumes, but they can’t take—”

“We’re literal space heroes!” Peter burst out.  “Well, you’re a literal space hero.  What do actors—they can’t take Star Trek from us!”

“I knew you’d be on board,” said Johnny, leaping to his feet, “once you knew how dire the situation really is.”  He was rummaging in the closet again.  “So I was thinking—” he tossed an expensive-looking pair of black pants out onto the floor, “sabotage?  I already have the layout of their house in L.A., and I think I can figure out where they keep the costumes.  I can get us there by six with the Fantasticar.  Or we could fly, but I know you aren’t—mmph.” As soon as he was out from behind the clothes, Peter was grabbing his face, kissing him off center.

“You are the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” said Peter, and kissed him again.  “I love you. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Johnny was halfway dressed in his cat burglar outfit, the top half hanging limply around his waist.  He was smearing black greasepaint around his eyes when Peter yelled from the bedroom, “You have a text from Sue!”

“Can you read it to me?” called Johnny, trying to arrange the black into a slightly more attractive shape.  “I’m kinda busy.”

There was silence in the other room as Peter read the text to himself.  Then he laughed.  “Johnny,” he said, “you’ll never believe this.”

“What, what’ll I never believe?”  _Fuck it_ , he thought, tossing what felt like his thirty thousandth blackened q-tip aside. 

“Just talked to Neil,” Peter read aloud, “They are not doing Star Trek.  He told me Scooby-Doo.”

“No,” said Johnny, emerging from the bathroom.  “No! Scooby-Doo?”

Peter wiggled Johnny’s phone.  “From the Master Spy herself.”

“Scooby-Doo!” Johnny said again, lifting his arms up to let Peter, who’d been creeping ever-closer, loop his arms around Johnny’s bare waist.  “That’s a terrible idea.  There’s only four of them!”

“I guess they’re leaving out the dog,” said Peter, with his face right up to Johnny’s, smiling. 

“The dog!  How can you leave out the dog! That’s why it’s called Scooby-Doo, it’s the dog’s name!”

Peter laughed into Johnny’s mouth, swaying both their hips from side to side. “So,” he said, and then kissed Johnny slow and gentle, “now that our burglary trip is off…and the kids aren’t home…what should we do instead?”

Johnny smiled against Peter’s lips.  “You tell me, handsome.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this, possibly even for a second time! Please don't do the math on any of my timelines here unless you want to fight me on twitter [@strangetales69](https://twitter.com/strangetales69) or tumblr [@teenbrigade](http://teenbrigade.tumblr.com) thx xoxo


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